Hello dear friends,
I'm not sure how many epilogues there will be to my Tabernacle Choir journey, but here we are again with some thoughts I wanted to share.
It's been just a little over two years since my service in the Tabernacle Choir came to an end.
A lot has changed since then:
*I no longer consider myself a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
*I came to know how it feels to be really lonely-- for about 18 months, post-divorce.
*All of my kids are now adults and living their lives after saying goodbye to my youngest kid who decided to serve a mission for the Church I left.
*I started dating and am now living with my boyfriend which has brought peace and happiness to my soul.
*I've penned the lyrics to 18 songs that chronicle important events in my life and with the help of AI to get the tunes out of my head and into actual songs, they are now all published.
*AND, I listen to Music & the Spoken Word every week--even occasionally attending in-person.
On that last point, I originally didn't plan to have The Tabernacle Choir be a part of my life after I left. That decision wasn't made because I carry any ill feelings towards the Choir itself or its mission to spread peace and joy throughout the world. It was made because of the pain I still carry from my Choir departure. Each time I thought about those last few months, I'd feel a combination of sadness and resentment.
But life has a way of sometimes forcing you to deal with pain.
A dear friend of mine recently auditioned for the Tabernacle Choir and was able to start his Choir journey at the beginning of this year. His in-person audition--at the Tabernacle--happened to be on a Thursday night. And as I was waiting for him to complete the audition, I decided to be brave and face my pain. So, after taking a deep breath, I went inside the main hall to listen to the Choir rehearse.
As I found a seat, I could hardly get my eyes to actually look at the Choir. In fact, for a good several minutes, I just stared at the bench in front of me while the songs I was very familiar with found their way into my ears.
But then I mustered the courage and looked up.
Immediately my eyes went to the bass section and to the seats I had sat in for over ten years. With the exception of a few, I recognized the faces--and for just a second, I was back there singing right beside them, looking out at the audience instead of from it.
I took a few more deep breaths and I closed my eyes, listening to the familiar tunes reverberate in the acoustically unique hall. I tried to let go of the tumultuous last few months I spent there and instead remember all of the good: the songs I loved, the performances, the feeling like I was part of something grand, the many friendships. . .
It was easier said than done.
But I tried.
After about 20 minutes of feeling, remembering, trying, and grieving, tears welled up in my eyes and I quietly got up from my seat and exited the building. I wandered around, trying to let my feelings just be what they were.
To sit with them.
To look at them without judgement.
After not too long, my friend came out of the door he had originally entered and I switched gears to excitedly ask him how he felt about his audition. He said he felt good about it, and not too many days passed before he received an official invite asking him to join the Choir!
I was genuinely happy for him.
I was.
I logically knew that his journey had nothing to do with mine, or with the jumbled up feelings my journey's ending had left me to deal with.
But it was hard.
You might think that since I had left the very church that the Choir was representing, I'd have no desires to go back. After all, I had become quite critical of the church's leaders, its truth claims, some of its practices, and of course its exclusionary views of LGBTQ people. But despite all of that, the thought of singing again with this beloved friend by my side was definitely an appealing one. Or at least a familiar one.
If only. . .
If only the church would simply focus on what's at the core of the two great commandments: LOVE.
But in so many ways it doesn't.
At least, that's how I feel.
Still, I tune in each week to support my friend. I take screenshots of when the camera finds him, I listen to the songs--sometimes singing along and allowing a few to resettle into my heart. I also listen to my friend Derek Porter give words of wisdom that I often mostly agree with--grateful to continue learning from him whenever his words resonate.
After continuing in this pattern week to week, my jumbled up emotions have become less jumbled. The pain, less. Sure, there are times when I feel anxious or sad or resentful or bitter. But those times are diminishing and giving way to one of the mantras I try to live my life by:
Look for the good wherever it's found and let it change you.
Maybe this is the real epilogue: not that I found my way back to singing with the Choir (I honestly don't want to do that), but that I found a way to hold both things at once—the bitter and sweet for what was, and the growing peace of what is now.
I don't know if the ache will ever fully leave, but I've stopped needing it to. I'll just choose to be grateful for whatever quiet, unglamorous process it is that turns grief into something you can sit with instead of something you have to run from.
And for now, that's enough.
